brown skin + glitter

Christian girl; virgin, never bled. Angel and sweetheart, they used to call me. What a cliched turn that follows. Head swivelling waist sways, eyes magnetised - set on me - always on me. All of it: the voice the face the scent the shape the clothes the sound of my bangles clinking together, the charm on my anklet singing against the beads below, buttered skin, you can guess the tone, dimpled innocence set into this appled jaw as it widens with my hips. Calling myself sexy is a crime —being sexy is a crime, one I’ve been punished for over and over and over. Repeatedly beaten over the breasts I begged for at 12 and regretted at 20 whatever. I thought it was beauty, something much worse; the harrowing reality of being a strange woman cursed with sex appeal.

that was the day I died the nightmares ended and so did the dreams how I prayed to no longer wake up sweated shaking and now I close my eyes silence, the dark has no voice I succeeded in clearing them out warm bodies to heat this lifeless flesh of mine the beat of a heart long lost I cleared them all out so perhaps they will take me now the right candidate for death perhaps they will take me now

I’ve never really had friends. I realise that now, after years of begging for the very love I gave so thoughtlessly. Colonial minds put a price on the love I give freely. “It must be worth nothing,”, they say to themselves, “since it’s being given away like this.” So, my love has no power, no yield no impact, nothing. As empty as the vessel pouring it out it would seem.

Can these stupid bots leave me alone !!! No I don’t want to read at your nonexistent event leave me alooooone

The options for some time have been: To die Or to live With the hope That tomorrow Might be the better day. That better day Still has not come. I’m losing hope.

I would rather be alone and free, and deal with the weight of loneliness, in freedom, than be a slave in a community of deceivers and the willingly deceived.

Is our ending something we author? Foresight haver suddenly blind. Reached the volta, and there were no lines remaining; a sudden end instead. I could write chapters about the first day, when it snapped into place and you were there and I wasn’t, I pretended I wasn’t. I pushed it back and away; faintly aware of your stare, and my own was set ahead never on you, until it was, and we collided wrongly. It was a very odd and angled collision. Not the beauty of poets, or Italian cathedral paintings; our collision was sharp nails and un-moistened stubble and friction burns and mismatched parts, and you tumbled away from me and I looked back and remembered you had stood excitedly, waiting for me to return your smile and I looked away, disgusted. Is that why you killed me? Revenge?

They only listen when you're dead and once you're dead you're dead. Is it when I die that people will listen? Perhaps my death is the lesson.

I need a reduction. They’re always sore and I hate wearing bras. I leave them free and the church excommunicates me. I never had a god anyway. Defence of me has always been weak, and future prospects unsurprisingly bleak. Someone else’s curse lands upon me in a heap and I stop pretending. How loud must I scream how long must I scream before I am heard? What difference does it make? An elusive sort of voice; noisy and less at once. An elusive sort of body; hideous and soft at once. What difference does it make?